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Copyright 1904 by WILLIAM P. KiRK 



All rights reserved 



UBB«RV nf CONGRESS 
Tvw> Copies deceived 
JUL 19 1904 
Convrteht En^ 

OLAS9 6|L XXb. No. 



? 



COPY B 






These verses originally appeared in The Milwaukee Sentinel, 
and are here reprinted with the consent of that paper. 



PRINTED AT 

THE GORHAM PRESS 

BOSTON, U. S. A. 



uId **OIlarm&a 



OInntifttta 









Page 


Roll Call in Corea .... 9 


The Old Autograph Album 




II 


The Modern Indian 




13 


The New Stenographer 






15 


Marbles 






17 


Russia vs. Japan . 






19 


Ballade of Brown Earth 






21 


As a Rule . 






23 


" Cross Your Heart " 






25 


The Man that Grinds 






27 


A Little Man 






29 


The Song of the Hammer 






30 


The Jokesmith's Prayer 






32 


Ballade of Better Days 






33 


When Baby Sang . 






35 


Jimmie's Reply 






36 


Mae 






38 


If I Were You 






39 


Incidental Expenses 






41 


Man's Limitations . 






42 


In Days of Old . 






43 


Fashion in the Philippines 






45 


Life 






46 





Page 


Politics in Servia . 


47 


The Lights of the City 


49 


A Fallen Dynasty . 


50 


The Winners . . . . 


51 


The Umpire's Rubaiyat 


52 


Her Smile .... 


53 


Dust .... 


54 


The End . 


55 


On the Rods 


57 


Shov'lin' Snow 


59 


The River .... 


61 


Ballade of Crimson Light . 


62 


The Message of the Snow . 


64 


" Has-beens "... 


66 


A Left-Handed Compliment 


68 


Some Good Counsel 


69 


Wanted — A Subject 


70 


September .... 


72 


In Limerick Land . 


73 


The Belles .... 


75 


Perdita .... 


77 


Hide and Seek 


79 


When Love is Dead 


81 


Ballade of a Magdalen 


82 


The Kid Behind the Pins . 


84 


When the Frost is on the Pumpkin 


86 


" Good Fellows " . 


88 


The Prodigal Son . 


89 



The Dream and the Song . 
The Man that Laughs First 
Ballade of a Soldier's Fate 
Now and Then 
As to Orpheus 
What Would I Do 
Abou T. Lipton 
Ye Gentle Critic 
Hiawatha on Baseball 
Hiawatha on Titles 
A Cluster of Limericks 



THE NORSK NIGHTING 

Speak Gently 

Horatius at the Bridge 

Olaf 

Little Steena Yohnson 

Excelsior . 

Father William 

Curfew Shall not Ring Tonight 

The Day is Done . 

Maud Muller 

"Yim" 

Charge of the Light Brigade 



ALE 



Page 
90 

91 
92 

94 
95 
97 
99 

100 

lOI 

103 
105 



109 
no 

113 
115 
116 
117 
119 

122 

124 

126 



Soil Olall m (Hor^a 

Slowly died the last red sunbeam, slowly came 
the hush of night 

Where the moon-illumined stronghold of the 
bearded Muscovite 

Broke the landscape's rolling contour in a fair 
Corean vale ; 

Many a warrior's heart was heavy, many a war- 
rior's cheek was pale. 

For the bloody fight was o'er, 

Silenced was the cannon's roar, 

All was quiet as a form without a soul ; 

And, before the call of taps, 

wSeveral noncommissioned chaps 

Volunteered half-heartedly to call the roll. 

Major Hitthedopesky, present. 

Major Fourflushoffsky, here. 
Brave old Spikethegunsky, absent. 

Bugler Blowsky standing near. 
Punkeroff is here, and Sniffsky, 
Pretzelvich and Michael Stififsky, 
Up spake Quartermaster Biffsky : 
" Can't lose me, boys, never fear ! " 

Present, too, were Bobtailstraightsky, 
Acesupsky, Blufferoff, 



Cushioncaromsky, Pingpongsky, 

Vladimir Onelungeroff ; 
Butterinsky, Maltesecatsky, 
Lageroff and Antifatsky 
Ivan Caseyatthebatsky 

And the selfish Feetintroff. 

Not to mention many more, with appellations 

much the same, 
Who retorted " Here " and " Present " when the 

time to answer came. 

Slowly spread the crimson sunrise, and the birdies 

in the trees 
Sang a song that sounded bully to the Muscovite 
main squeeze. 

" By my beardsky ! " muttered he, 
" 'Twas a glorious victoree ! 
Valiant Spikethegunsky had to go, poor soul ! 
But the only other chap 
Was the noncommissioned yap 
Who succumbed to lockjaw when he called the 
roll ! " 



lO 



W^ (ilb AutDgrapI? Album 

Among the relics of the past, 
The hnks of Memory's clinging chain 
That, with its meshes, binds me fast 
To days that cannot come again, 
There is no prize more precious than 
This booklet ; thoughtfully I scan 
Its yellow pages, scribbled o'er 
By many whom I knew of yore. 
Here a refrain expressing love 
Beneath the picture of a dove, 
And there a half-sarcastic quip. 
All traced in childish penmanship. 

" If you love me as I love you, 
No knife can cut our love in two." 
'Neath that trite sentiment I see 
A name once passing dear to me. 
Across the past my memory flies — 
I see a pair of laughing eyes ; 
I press a little hand that lay 
Within my own, that summer day. 
Again our childish vow we take — 
Oh that I might, for old time's sake, 
Once more those little fingers grasp 
That since have felt an angel's clasp, 
" No knife can cut our love in two," 



Still, it was but an earthly strand, 
And what a knife could never do 
Was, as a higher power planned. 
Accomplished by the Reaper's hand. 

O treasured names ! O Memory ! 
What were existence without thee? 
For art thou not the magic key 
With which we penetrate the seal 
That locks away the musty past 
And, in our leisure moments, steal 
Great solace from that storeroom vast? 
Bereft of thee, how man would grope 
Into the future's unknown scope. 
As, up some storm-swept, rocky slope, 
The shipwrecked mariner doth crawl, 
Before him, dread uncertainty, 
Behind, the cruel, yawning sea — 
And darkness hanging over all. 



12 



©Ijp UonJim inbian 

Behold the wooden Indian 

Who stands outside the door, 
And guards with frown and hatchet 

The old tobacco store. 
He never beat a grocery bill, 

He never told a lie ; 
He never took a longing look 

At bourbon, fizz, or rye. 

Behold the wooden Indian — 

A mass of oak and paint. 
He never made a crooked move ; 

In faith, he is a saint. 
He never bought a stack of chips 

And sat into a game; 
He never rushed a chorus girl 

Nor flirted with a dame. 

Behold the wooden Indian 

Who, on the other hand, 
Was never known to help the poor 

That fill our glorious land ; 
Who never heard the piteous cry 

Of him that starved alone; 
Who never gave a hungry dog 

So much as one small bone. 



13 



Behold the wooden Indian 

(And clay is much like wood) 
Who never did a bit of harm 

Nor yet a bit of good. 
His family is not extinct, 

In fact, one often meets 
A lot of wooden Indians 

A-walking on the streets ! 



14 



®i|f Nfitt §'tf tt00ra^jl][f r 

I have a new stenographer — she came to work 

today ; 
She told me that she wrote the Graham system. 
Two hundred words a minute seemed to her, 

she said, like play, 
And word for word at that — she never missed 

'em. 
I gave her some dictation — a letter to a man ; 
And this, as I remember it, was how the letter 

ran: 

" Dear Sir : I have your favor, and in reply would 
state 

That I accept the ofifer in yours of recent date. 

I wish to say, however, that under no condition 

Can I afiford to think of your free lance proposi- 
tion. 

I shall begin tomorrow to turn the matter out, 

The copy will be ready by August loth, about. 

Material of this nature should not be rushed un- 
duly. 

Thanking you for your favor, I am yours very 
truly."' 

She took it down in shorthand with apparent ease 
and grace ; 
She didn't call me back, all in a flurry. 



15 



Thought I : "At last I have a girl worth keeping 

round the place! " 
Then said: "Now write it out — you needn't 

hurry." 
The Remington she tackled, now and then she 

struck a key, 
And after thirty minutes this is what she handed 

me: 

" Dear Sir : I have the feever and in a Pile i Sit 
And I except the Offer as you Have reasoned it, 
I wish to see however That under any condishun 
Can I for to think of a Free Lunch preposishun ? 
I Shal be in tomorrow To, turn the mother out, 
The cap will be red and Will cosst $io about. 
Mateeriul of this nation should not rust N. Dooley 
Thinking you have the Feever I am Yours very 
Truely ?." 



i6 



Ragged, rugged little urchins, playing marbles 

in the street, 
Oftentimes I pause to watch 3'ou as you eagerly 

compete 
For the white and colored " commies " trampled 

in the slush and snow, 
And I think about the playmates of the days of 

long ago. 
I remember how my marbles, piled in gay, fan- 
tastic heaps, 
Sometimes vanished slowly, surely, in the dizzy 

whirl of " keeps." 
And I recollect the rapture that was mine when 

lucky play 
Sent me from the game a winner — not so often, 

by the way. 

One there was who used to capture all the agates 

in my sack. 
Then by dint of careless playing he would always 

give them back. 
Dear old chum, your boyish triumphs marked the 

end of your success ; 
As you grew, capricious Fortune e'er denied you 

her caress. 



17 



With a heart too big for scheming and a mind too 

high for greed, 
You departed for a playground where I know you 

will succeed. 
As I watch the noisy youngsters something seems 

to dim my sight 
And I see you as I saw you when the Reaper won 

the fight. 

Ragged, rugged Httle urchins, playing marbles 

in the street, 
I am thinking of the journey that awaits your 

busy feet. 
Carefully I scan the features of the winners in 

the strife. 
And I think about the trials in the marble game 

of Life. 
You will not for aye be pitted 'gainst the rivals 

of today. 
Frolic, for the game is easy — time enough for 

rougher play. 
May the vain regret that smites you when you 

lose your colored toys 
Be the worst that e'er assails you. God be with 

you, little boys. 



i8 



Bu0Bta m. Japan 

Now unleash the dogs of war, 

Sic 'em, Towserosky! 
That's what Russia's aching for — 

Soon Ave'll know who's bossky. 
Here, Mikado — sic 'em, you ! 

Chew the Czar's old shinsky ; 
Fight like Hades — fight it through, 

And you stand to winsky ! 
Bow ! Wow ! 
At 'em, now, 

Till they are all insky ! 

Come Mikado — go it, lad! 

Fight for old Japansky ! 
Put a crimp in Adam Zad, 

Walking like a mansky ! 
Make no truce with Adam Zad — 

That would only vex us ; 
Shoot, and shoot to kill, B'gad ! 

Like they do in Texas, 
Bow ! Wow ! 
Soak 'em now, 

In the solar plexus ! 

Now unleash the dogs of war, 
Sic 'em, Towserosky ! 



19 



Do not bluff Mikado, or 

Yours will be the lossky ! 
Says J. Bull, the referee, 

" Now, ere you begin it, 
You can hit with one arm free 
May the better win it ! " 
Bow ! Wow ! 
Sic 'em now ! 
Glad we aren't in it ! 



iBallabr of Broititt lEarlI| 

We spurn the dust beneath our feet 

What time we linger, one brief day ; 
The steeds of Destiny are fleet, 

They whirl us swiftly on our way ; 

We live, laugh, love — and then we pray, 
A church bell tolls its requiem slow. 

Brown earth, though scorned by human clay, 
Into thy depths all men must go. 

The flower spreads its fragrance sweet 

And sings a silent song of May ; 
Its advent joyfully we greet ; 

We pluck it in our wanton play, 

Nor reck that once a seedlet lay 
In thy cold clasp — and even so, 

Brown earth, the Law we must obey ; 
Into thy depths all men must go. 

The mold of emperors will meet 

The dust of God's unknown array; 
A universal winding sheet. 

Nor sage nor serf can tell thee nay. 

A moment o'er thy face we stray 
Ere Fate resolves the dice to throw, 

And then, brown earth, the price we pay — 
Into thy depths all men must go. 



21 



LENVOl. 

Sand in the hour glass, slip away ; 

We cannot stem the fateful flow. 
Brown earth, we tremble 'neath thy sway 

Into thy depths all men must go. 



As a 5R«b 

In the morning when I rise 
I remark with sundr}' sighs : 
" I must ginger up today — 
To much time I've thrown away. 
I must cut out all the frills, 
Frown upon the pace that kills, 
Knuckle down with might and main, 
And some lost ground thus regain." 
So soliloquizing, I 
Eat my breakfast on the fly ; 
Then my ardor seems to cool, 
As a rule. 

In the evening I retire. 
Troubled with forebodings dire. 
Vowing that another day 
Will behold me on the way 
To success and wealth — two things 
That persistent plugging brings. 
" Yes," I mutter, " starting in 
Right away, I'll strive like sin. 
Art is long and time is brief 
And I will not come to grief ; 
For I'll sever all the ties 
That I know demoralize." 
But before another day 



23 



Has completely passed away, 
I begin to make complaint. 
At my self-imposed restraint 
I am kicking like a mule — 
As a rule. 

As a rule, 
In this great terrestial school, 
Lessons taught by aches and sorrow 
Must be learned again tomorrow. 
Learned tomorrow, will they stay 
Mastered in the future? Nay! 
Preachers say, with solemn zest, 
Man is but a child, at best ; 
This comparison is flat — 
Man, methinks, is worse than that: 
He is just a plain damphool — 

As a rule. 



24 



"(HrrtBa four l^tntV* 

VVhtMi we were boys together, Bill, you were my 

bosom friend ; 
We used to fish together up the creek, riound the 

bend. 
And you and I were wont to tramp o'er many 

a weary mile. 
Armed with those rusty muskets, fifty years be- 
hind the style. 
You were a born romancer, Bill, and well do I 

recall 
How, when you told your yarns, I used to greet 
you with this stall : 

" Cross your heart, 
Black and blue ! 
Show me, now, 
That it's true ! " 

I recollect the readiness with which you " crossed 

your heart," 
And told another story with the same convincing 

art. 
Of course I could not doubt you after you had 

stood the test 
And traced the sign I asked for on your sunburnt, 

blistered breast ; 



25 



And thus you used to get away with many a weird 

old tale — 
One time you even made nic think that you had 
caught a whale ! 

" Cross your heart, 
Black and blue ! 
Show me, now. 
That it's true ! " 

Tonight I sit alone and conjure up those happy 

hours 
When you and I, barefooted lads, roamed wild 

among the flowers. 
And, looking back, I love to think I never doubted 

you. 
For under all your fancies beat a heart courage- 
ous, true. 
Both day and night I've seen that sight — the 

boy — the cracking ice, 
The cries for help — the brave response — and 
you — you paid the price ! 

'Cross your heart. 

Cold and still. 

Lay your hands — 

Dear old Bill ! 



26 



©110 Mm tijat (&nnhs 

Now this is the song of the man that grinds — 

The song of the hero unsung, 
Who slaves through the clay in a resolute way 
For meager results and indifferent pay 

And praise from a flattering tongue. 

The first flush of dawn sees him right at his post, 

The sun bids farewell to him there ; 
His comrades forsake him for pleasanter fields, 
But seldom he falters and never he yields. 
And always he faces despair. 

The plutocrat gloats o'er his store of gold 
Late wrenched from unfortunate hands ; 
He chuckles and schemes, and greedily dreams, 
x*\nd watches the shimmering, soul-stunting 
streams 
Of wealth that he proudly commands. 

The genius seeks madly for further acclaim, 

For laurels and evergreen bays ; 
He mumbles his lines, and for eulogy pines. 
And ever he chases the phantom that shines 

In Fame's dim and tortuous maze. 



27 



But this is the song of the man that grinds — 

The song of the hero unknown, 
Who adds two and two, and never gets through 
Until, when his loved ones have bidden adieu. 

He wearily comes to his own. 



28 



Behold the wooden Indian 

Who stands outside the door, 
And guards with frown and hatchet 

The old tobacco store. 
He never beat a grocery bill, 

He never told a lie ; 
He never took a longing look 

At bourbon, fizz, or rye. 

Behold the wooden Indian — 

A mass of oak and paint. 
He never made a crooked move ; 

In faith, he is a saint. 
He never bought a stack of chips 

And sat into a game; 
He never rushed a chorus girl 

Nor flirted with a dame. 

Behold the wooden Indian 

Who, on the other hand, 
Was never known to help the poor 

That fill our glorious land ; 
Who never heard the piteous cry 

Of him that starved alone; 
Who never gave a hungry dog 

So much as one small bone. 



13 



Behold the wooden Indian 

(And clay is much like wood) 
Who never did a bit of harm 

Nor yet a bit of good. 
His family is not extinct, 

In fact, one often meets 
A lot of wooden Indians 

A- walking: on the streets ! 



M 



I liave a new stenographer — she came to work 

today ; 
She told me that she wrote the Graham system. 
Two hundred words a minute seemed to her, 

she said, Hke play, 
And word for word at that — she never missed 

'em. 
I gave her some dictation — a letter to a man ; 
And this, as I remember it, was how the letter 

ran: 

" Dear Sir : I have your favor, and in reply would 
state 

That I accept the offer in yours of recent date. 

I wish to say, however, that under no condition 

Can I afford to think of your free lance proposi- 
tion. 

I shall begin tomorrow to turn the matter out. 

The copy will be ready by August loth, about. 

Material of this nature should not be rushed un- 
duly. 

Thanking vou for your favor, I am yours very 
truly."' 

She took it down in shorthand with apparent ease 
and grace ; 
She didn't call me back, all in a flurry. 



IS 



Thought I : "At last I have a girl worth keeping 

round the place ! " 
Then said : " Now write it out — you needn't 

hurry." 
The Remington she tackled, now and then she 

struck a key, 
And after thirty minutes this is what she handed 

me: 

" Dear Sir : I have the feever and in a Pile i Sit 
And I except the Offer as you Have reasoned it, 
I wish to see however That under any condishun 
Can I for to think of a Free Lunch preposishun ? 
I Shal be in tomorrow To, turn the mother out. 
The cap will be red and Will cosst $io about. 
Mateeriul of this nation should not rust N. Dooley 
Thinking you have the Feever I am Yours very 
Truely ?." 



i6 



MntbhB 

Ragged, rugged little urchins, playing marbles 

in the street, 
Oftentimes I pause to watch you as you eagerly 

compete 
For the white and colored " commies " trampled 

in the slush and snow, 
And I think about the playmates of the days of 

long ago. 
I remember how my marbles, piled in gay, fan- 
tastic heaps. 
Sometimes vanished slowly, surely, in the dizzy 

whirl of " keeps." 
And I recollect the rapture that was mine when 

lucky play 
Sent me from the game a winner — not so often, 

by the way. 

One there was who used to capture all the agates 

in my sack. 
Then by dint of careless playing he would always 

give them back. 
Dear old chum, your boyish triumphs marked the 

end of your success ; 
As you grew, capricious Fortune e'er denied you 

her caress. 



17 



With a heart too big for scheming and a mind too 

high for greed, 
You departed for a playground where I know you 

will succeed. 
As I watch the noisy youngsters something seems 

to dim my sight 
And I see you as I saw you when the Reaper won 

the fight. 

Ragged, rugged little urchins, playing marbles 

in the street, 
I am thinking of the journey that awaits your 

busy feet. 
Carefully I scan the features of the winners in 

the strife. 
And I think about the trials in the marble game 

of Life. 
You will not for aye be pitted 'gainst the rivals 

of today, 
FroHc, for the game is easy — time enough for 

rougher play. 
May the vain regret that smites you when you 

lose your colored toys 
Be the worst that e'er assails you. God be with 

you, little boys. 



x8 



iRuBBta us. Japan 

Now unleash the dogs of war, 

Sic 'em, Towserosky! 
That's what Russia's aching' for — 

Soon we'll know who's bossky. 
Here, Mikado — sic 'em, you ! 

Chew the Czar's old shinsky ; 
Fight like Hades — fight it through, 

And you stand to winsky ! 
Bow ! Wow ! 
At 'em, now, 

Till they are all insky ! 

Come Mikado — go it, lad ! 

Fight for old Japansky ! 
Put a crimp in Adam Zad, 

Walking like a mansky ! 
Make no truce with Adam Zad — 

That would only vex us ; 
Shoot, and shoot to kill, B'gad ! 

Like they do in Texas. 
Bow ! Wow ! 
Soak 'em now. 

In the solar plexus ! 

Now unleash the dogs of war, 
Sic 'em, Towserosky ! 



19 



Do not bluff Mikado, or 

Yours will be the lossky! 
Says J. Bull, the referee, 

" Now, ere you begin it, 
You can hit with one arm free 
May the better win it ! " 
Bow ! Wow ! 
Sic 'em now ! 
Glad we aren't in it ! 



lallaJip at Irolun Sartli 

We spurn the dust beneath our feet 

What time we hnger, one brief day ; 
The steeds of Destiny are fleet, 

They whirl us swiftly on our way ; 

We live, laugh, love — and then we pray, 
A church bell tolls its requiem slow. 

Brown earth, though scorned by human clay 
Into thy depths all men must go. 

The flower spreads its fragrance sweet 
And sings a silent song of May ; 

Its advent joyfully we greet ; 
We pluck it in our wanton play, 
Nor reck that once a seedlet lay 

In thy cold clasp — and even so. 

Brown earth, the Law we must obey ; 

Into thy depths all men must go. 

The mold of emperors will meet 
The dust of God's unknown array; 

A universal winding sheet, 

Nor sage nor serf can tell thee nay, 
A moment o'er thy face we stray 

Ere Fate resolves the dice to throw, 

And then, brown earth, the price we pay — 

Into thy depths all men must go. 



21 



LENVOI. 

Sand in the hour glass, slip away ; 

We cannot stem the fateful flow. 
Brown earth, we tremble "neath thy sway 

Into thy depths all men must go. 



Ah a ^nU 

In the morning when I rise 
I remark with sundry sighs : 
" I must ginger up today — 
To much time I've thrown away. 
I must cut out all the frills, 
Frown upon the pace that kills, 
Knuckle down with might and main, 
And some lost ground thus regain." 
So soliloquizing, I 
Eat my breakfast on the fly ; 
Then my ardor seems to cool, 
As a rule. 

In the evening I retire, 
Troubled with forebodings dire, 
Vowing that another day 
Will behold me on the way 
To success and wealth — two things 
That persistent plugging brings. 
" Yes," I mutter, " starting in 
Right away, I'll strive like sin. 
Art is long and time is brief 
And I will not come to grief; 
For I'll sever all the ties 
That I know demoralize." 
But before another day 



23 



Has completely passed away, 
I begin to make complaint. 
At my self-imposed restraint 
I am kicking like a mule — 
As a rule. 

As a rule, 
In this great terrestial school. 
Lessons taught by aches and sorrow 
Must be learned again tomorrow. 
Learned tomorrow, will they stay 
Mastered in the future? Nay! 
Preachers say, with solemn zest, 
Man is but a child, at best ; 
This comparison is fiat — 
Man, methinks, is worse than that : 
He is just a plain damphool — 

As a rule. 



24 



"OlritBB four l^^art** 

When we were bo}-s together, Bill, you were my 

bosom friend ; 
We used to fish together up the creek, around the 

bend. 
And you and I were wont to tramp o'er many 

a weary mile. 
Armed with those rusty muskets, fifty years be- 
hind the style. 
You were a born romancer. Bill, and well do I 

recall 
How, when you told your yarns, I used to greet 
you with this stall : 

" Cross your heart. 
Black and blue ! 
Show me, now, 
That it's true ! " 

I recollect the readiness with which you " crossed 

your heart," 
And told another story with the same convincing 

art. 
Of course I could not doubt you after you had 

stood the test 
And traced the sign I asked for on your sunburnt, 

blistered breast ; 



25 



And thus you used to get away with many a weird 

old tale — 
One time you even made me think that you had 
caught a whale ! 

" Cross your heart, 
Black and blue ! 
Show me, now, 
That it's true ! " 

Tonight I sit alone and conjure up those happy 

hours 
When you and I, barefooted lads, roamed wild 

among the flowers. 
And, looking back, I love to think I never doubted 

you, 
For under all your fancies beat a heart courage- 
ous, true. 
Both day and night I've seen that sight — the 

boy — the cracking ice, 
The cries for help — the brave response — and 
you — you paid the price ! 

'Cross your heart, 

Cold and still. 

Lay your hands — 

Dear old Bill ! 



26 



®I|p Mm tijat drinba 

Now this is the song of the man that grinds — 

The song of the hero unsung, 
Who slaves through the day in a resolute way 
For meager results and indifferent pay 

And praise from a flattering tongue. 

The first flush of dawn sees him right at his post, 

The sun bids farewell to him there ; 
His comrades forsake him for pleasanter fields, 
But seldom he falters and never he yields, 
And always he faces despair. 

The plutocrat gloats o'er his store of gold 
Late wrenched from unfortunate hands ; 

He chuckles and schemes, and greedily dreams. 

And watches the shimmering, soul-stunting 
streams 
Of wealth that he proudly commands. 

The genius seeks madly for further acclaim, 

For laurels and evergreen bays ; 
He mumbles his lines, and for eulogy pines. 
And ever he chases the phantom that shines 

In Fame's dim and tortuous maze. 



27 



But this is the song of the man that grinds — 

The song of the hero unknown, 
Who adds two and two, and never gets through 
Until, when his loved ones have bidden adieu. 

He wearily comes to his own. 



28 



Dusky queens 

In the far-off Philippines 

As a rule 

Keep quite cool ; 

For they wear, yes, they do, 

Costumes very peekaboo. 

Underneath the bamboo tree 

Where the blundering bumble bee 

Bums and buzzes, there they sit 

Wearing raglans, aber nit. 

They believe 

Mother Eve 

Had the right idea of dress, 

And they have few skirts to press; 

Oh, the costumes they possess ! 

Decollette ? 

I should say. 

Talk about your peekaboo 

For the breeze to whistle through ! 

Nine-tenths peek and one-tenth boo 

Yes, indeed, we envy you. 

Dusky queens 

In the far-off Philippines. 



45 



What is life 

After all? 
Care and strife, 

Rise and fall. 
Lofty dreams 

Soon dispelled, 
Cherished schemes 

Rudely felled. 
Love and spurn, 

Kiss and thrust. 
Then return 

To the dust. 
Care and strife. 

Rise and fall. 
What is life 

After all? 



46 



JpoltttrH in Bnbm 

There's scandal, awful scandal, in the country 
o'er the sea. 
That recently discarded a distasteful king and 
queen ; 
There's talk of sneaking bribery, and boodlers, 
yes, sir-ee ! 
And selfish schemes the like of which are very 
seldom seen. 

It surely beats the dickens, 

In fact, it beats the band; 
The plot forever thickens 

And spreads on every hand. 
Like coons that prowl for chickens. 
These politicians bland, 
Are steeping in corruption the Skupshtina! 

It seems that Julep Jagovich was working for a 
bill 
Revoking ad valorem rates — a specious meas- 
ure which 
Would tend to wrong God's patient poor, and 
also help to fill 
The coffers of the magnates, and that Georgia 
Graftarich 

Remarked, " I need the money, 
And I will plug for you ; 



47 



Just sign the checks, my honey, 

I'll see what I can do." 
With these maneuvres funny, 

This toga-wearing crew. 
Is steeping in corruption the Skupshtina! 

Assemblyman Whitesealovich, while partially lit 
up. 
Unwittingly confessed that Jagovich had 
handed him 
A tidy little bank roll, and had asked him out to 
sup. 
And saturated him with wine, and said " Please 
help us, Jim." 

'Tis really very shocking, 

There's bound to be a roar ; 
Each politician's stocking 

With swag is running o'er ; 
Despite the people's knocking, 
Fat lobbyists galore. 
Are steeping in corruption the Skupshtina! 



48 



I see them twinkling across the hills, 

Where a far-off city lies ; 
Like sunbeams glinting on rippling rills 

They dance before my eyes ; 

And I ask myself, is Paradise 
Beyond that distant line. 

Or Hades, haunted by sobs and sighs, 
Where the lights of the city shine? 

The sound of silvery laughter seems 

To echo from over there. 
Suggesting nothing but rapturous dreams 

And freedom from cruel care — 

Then I hear a cry of intense despair, 
A piteous, pleading whine ; 

Gaunt poverty crawls o'er the thoroughfare 
Where the lights of the city shine. 

And then I know, as I should have known, 

That, search for it as we may, 
There is no spot where pleasure alone 

Holds undisputed sway. 

The joy that may consecrate your today, 
The grief that may darken mine. 

Walk hand in hand o'er the crowded way. 
Where the lights of the city shine. 



49 



Like a lightning flash from an azure sky 

Came the summons that turned a king to clay, 
And Pity and Sorrow hastened by 

The shambles where Servia's monarch lay ; 

He who had walked the downward way, 
And dragged in the mire a nation's throne, 

Till in his ears rang the slogan " Slay ! " 
And stained with crimson, he fell alone. 

Alone? Ah, no! At the ruler's side 
A scarlet woman lay cold and still ; 

The reaper caressed his bawdy bride 
With clammy kisses that thrill and kill. 
And royal blood, in a sickening rill, 

Flowed sluggishly over the marble floor — 
A suffering people had shown their will, 

A dissolute leader's reign was o'er. 



SO 



The world doesn't always rely on the chaps 

That put up the smoothest appearance ; 
They're often, indeed, very commonplace yaps, 

Sans intellect, sans perseverance. 
After all, we are judged in our journey through 
life 

By the gray matter under our hoods, 
And the men that win out in the strenuous strife 

Are the men that deliver the goods. 

A man may be dignified, pompously so. 

Distinguished and ultra-impressive ; 
His neighbors may deem him the whole blooming 
show. 

And call him a leader progressive. 
But sooner or later his boom will collapse, 

And back he will jog to the woods. 
The battles are won, from reveille to taps, 

By the men that deliver the goods! 



SI 



I. 

A Book of Rules, a frown upon my brow, 
An indicator, a good Eye, and thou 

Beside me, shrieking " Lobster, thou art 
Rank ! " 
Oh this, methinks, were agony enow. 

11. 

Strange, is it not, that when I call a Strike 
I 'rouse in every Breast sincere dislike ; 

Yet if I call that self-same curve a Ball 
I am abused by Tom and Dick and Mike. 

III. 

What boots it though a Player be tagged out 
Beyond the slightest shadow of a Doubt? 
The very instant that I Wave my hand, 
From stand and Bleachers comes a threat'ning 
shout. 

IV. 
I sometimes think that when my race is run, 
When three Strikes have been called, and, all 
undone, 
I hear St. Peter read the Riot Act, 
I'll kick on his Decision, just for fun! 



52 



She smiles on me — a fleeting smile 

That struggles through a wall of tears ; 

It lingers for the briefest while, 
Then disappears. 

But while it lurks in those dear eyes 

My soul floats into paradise. 

She is not always at my side 

When thus she smiles ; though she and I 
Were parted by the ocean wide, 

Her smile would fly 
Across the rolling, restless sea 
To meet the yearning eyes of me. 

She smiles on me — God, who am I 
That such an angel thus should deign 

To hear my humble, heart-born cry? 
Madly I drain 

The wine-filled cup of ecstasy 

That sparkles when she smiles on me. 



53 



iuat 
I. 

I stood within an old, deserted room, 
Long given over to the spider's play. 

And watched the busy insect at his loom 
While dropped the sun behind the hills away. 

II. 

Brown dust lay scattered on the mold'ring floor, 
Dust filled each nook in that drear, silent 
place — 

And as I gazed, a million fragments more 
Fell noiselessly through scarce-resisting space. 

III. 

Long time I stood in meditation deep, 

Then asked my soul, '' What are these grains 
of dust 

That in the confines of this chamber sleep 
Eternally, 'mid draperies of must ? " 

IV. 

My soul made answer : " This deserted room 
O'er which the dying crimson sunlight plays 

Is thy past life. The dust motes in its tomb 
Are but the ghosts of fruitless yesterdays." 



54 



I asked a laughing little lad 

" What is the end of all this fun ? " 
His upturned eyes grew wide and sad, 

He answered " Gee, I just begun ! 
I s'pose that when I have to die 

If I am good I'll prob'ly go 
To Heaven — I dunno jes' why, 

But anyhow Ma told me so ! " 

I asked a solemn clergyman 

"What is the end, sir — can you tell?" 
He answered pompously " I can ! 

For Christians, heaven ; for sinners, hell ! 
Repent, ere yet it is too late ; 

No longer let black sin besmirch 
Your weary soul ; see ! yonder gate 

Leads to the one and only church ! " 

I asked a soul without a name. 

With paint upon her stolid face: 
" What is the end of all this shame ? 

What lies beyond this primrose pace ? " 
She paused a moment. From her hand 

The wineglass fell, and then she laughed ; 
" The end ? " she sneered, " a bed of sand, 

And possibly a marble shaft." 



55 



I asked a sage " What is the end ? " 

He shook a head as white as snow, 
And calmly answered me, " My friend. 

You ask in vain — I do not know ! 
This was the answer of the seer, 

And hopelessly I turned to go, 
The echo ringing in my ear : 

" I do not know ; I do not know ! " 



56 



(in t\)t UohB 

Now the hoary monarch Winter sways his scepter 
o'er the land, 

Now a thousand flowing rivers turn to flint at his 
command. 

Tinkling sleighbells all about us ring a song of 
praise for him. 

And we shudder in his presence, for his smile is 
gray and grim. 

Yet we have no cause to fear him ; the unfortu- 
nates he prods 

Are the ragged, frozen creatures who are riding 
on the rods — 

Underneath, upon the rods, 
Stolid, sullen, clinging clods ! 

Lounging in the Pullman palace, you are longing 
for the end 

Of the journey you are making ; does it pall upon 
you, friend? 

Down beneath your rugs and cushions, down be- 
neath the coach's floor. 

Hanging blindly to the shafting, dazed and mad- 
dened by the roar 

Of the flying train are others, flayed and cursed 
of the gods. 



57 



Praying for the termination of the journey on 
the rods — 

Underneath, upon the rods, 
StoHd, sullen, cHnging clods ! 

Sometimes muscles lose their power, when the 

frost is biting deep. 
Sometimes cold benumbs the senses of the men 

that dare not sleep. 
Sometimes by the tourist dozing in his berth is 

felt a jar, 
And a roll of rags and sinews whizzes from the 

flying car. 
Some pedestrian, next morning, as along the ties 

he plods, 
Finds the form of him who parted from his 

brothers on the rods — 

Underneath, upon the rods, 
Stolid, sullen, clinging clods ! 



58 



I'm glad it's gittin' winter, 

Because I like to sling 
A heap o' good hard snowballs, 

An' skate, an' everything. 
But gee ! I ain't so happy. 

At six o'clock or so, 
When Pa he comes an' calls me 

An' starts me shov'lin' snow. 

I hate to git up early, 

An' scrape off every walk. 
But Pa he jes' says " Hustle! " 

He won't stand no back talk. 
So when the storm gits started 

It makes me sore ; I know 
I won't git any breakfast 

Till Pm through shov'lin' snow. 

Pve got to clean the front walk. 

An' clean the back walk, too. 
An' dig around the porches 

Till both my hands is blue. 
Sometimes I feel like swearin'. 

An' wish that I could go 
To Afriky — them niggers 

Git out o' shov'lin' snow. 



59 



Well, anyhow, I'd rather 

Be me than Jimmie Black ; 
He fell off their big woodshed 

Last year, an' hurt his back. 
He sets np in his window 

An' waves at me — I know 
He'd like to come right over 

An' help me shov'lin' snow. 



60 



Past dingy shops and grimy, slimy walls, 

Past tall, gaunt buildings frowning on the brink, 

The sluggish river crawls upon its way, 

Bearing, upon its scum-caked breast, the foulness 

Of all the city. Underneath the bridge 

It creeps, and reaches up its cruel maw 

For her who stands alone, irresolute — 

For her who tasted of the Dead Sea fruit 

And feels the ashes still on her white lips. 

She pauses, yet the river does not fear, 

For it has seen that same wild look before. 

On faces mirrored in its calm expanse. 

And well it knows its pale, slim bride will come ! 



6i 



See! In the west the sun goes down, 
Leaving, to mark its stately flight, 

A gorgeous, scintillating crown 

To deck awhile the brow of Night — 
A crown that fades from mortal sight 

Slowly, as fades the sheen of dew. 
Gaze long upon that crimson light — 

Brothers, it is the life-blood's hue! 

Look yonder, where the tunnel's frown 

Awes, as a gtilf in Hades might! 
O'er faces soot-begrimed and brown 

There sweeps a wave of ashy white, 

For eagle eyes have read aright 
The danger signal, deadly, true ; 

Gaze long upon that crimson light — 
Brothers, it is the life-blood's hue! 

Now come we to the tawdry town. 

Where lurks the Lust-worm's searing blight; 
Bold Shame stalks forth, in tinsel gown. 

Cold, purchased kisses to invite; 

And red, red beacons, burning bright. 
Dance wantonly before our view ; 

Gaze long upon that crimson light — 
Brothers, it is the life-blood's hue. 



62 



L ENVOI. 

Prince! When you stood upon the height, 
Watching the rainbow, thus spake you : 

Gaze long upon that crimson Hght — 
Brothers, it is the Hfe-blood's hue ! 



63 



®Ij? Mt&BSLQt of tij? Bnom 

Uster sorter like the snow, 
That was many years ago, 
When I was a rompin' kid — 
Liked the winter then, I did. 
Uster take my sled at night, 
When the stars was shinin' bright, 
And go slidin' on the hill. 
Me and Jack and little Phil. 

Uster sorter like the snow. 
When my beard began ter grow. 
Twenty-three, and six feet two — 
Kinder figured I would do! 
Bought a linen collar and 
A Jim-slicker four-in-hand ; 
Combed my hair and shined my boots, 
Like them citified galoots ; 
Went ter call on little Grace, 
Schoolma'am down ter Griggsby's place. 
In the cutter at my side, 
'Peared like she enjoyed the ride, 
With the sleighbells jinglin' loud, 
Me a-feelin' mighty proud. 
And the moon a-lookin' down, 
From the hill, behind the town. 



64 



Uster sorter like the snow 
Them glad days, but I dunno 
That I care ter see it now — 
Fact is, I dunno jes' how 
Ter express it, but the snow 
Seems ter whisper, kinder low, 
Jes' the words she tried ter say 
When she found she couldn't stay. 
And it allers looks so white. 
Like her face that winter night. 
When they called me ter the bed, 
And she raised her golden head 
Long enough ter say goodbye, 
Me a-tryin' not ter cry. 
Uster sorter like the snow, 
That was many years ago. 



65 



An old reporter faced the blinding sleet, 

He went the rounds, this stolid " also-ran," 

As plods the sentry on his dreary beat, 

A broken-down, discouraged, heartsick man ; 

Time was when he presided o'er a sheet — 
For many years he stayed up in the van ; 

Then, somehow, came the oft-encountered slip, 

But he was good, before he lost his grip ! 

Boisterous rooters at a baseball game 

Laughed when a fielder fumbled easy flies ; 

They jeered and hooted at a man whose name 
They had for years been proud to idolize ; 

Awhile he held the pinnacle of fame. 

Till the descent, far swifter than the rise, 

Began — he sadly took the downward trip, 

But he was good, before he lost his grip! 

A ragged mountebank amused the crowd, 

Who recked not, as they saw his mirthless 
smile, 

That once he stood, with head in deference bowed, 
Before a splendid audience, the while 

Their wild applause resounded, long and loud — 
Another idol soon became the style; 

Distinction's cup passed to another lip. 

But he was good, before he lost his grip! 



66 



Thousands have striven, reached the hazy goal, 
Lingered awhile with pardonable pride, 

Then, leaving hope forever on the knoll, 
Have tottered feebly down the other side 

Unwatched. Alas! Full many a hungry soul 
Yearns for the fickle plaudits now denied — 

Yearns for acclaim, and gets a cruel slur ; 

God bless the " has-beens," just for what they 
were! 



67 



When Ham was born the neighbors came, 
Full many a scandal-slinging dame ; 
They viewed the mng of little Ham, 
And watched the squirming youngster jam 
His coal-black paws into his eyes — 
His color caused untold surprise. 
His heavy lips, his kinky hair, 
Made all these worthy matrons stare. 
Old Noah, who was standing near, 
Remarked with pride, "Ain't he a dear?" 
" He is," they said, " the little cad 
Is just the picture of his dad ! " 



68 



If you have a chance to lie, 

Pass it up; 
It will hurt you by and by — 

Pass it up. 
If you have a chance to shine 
As director in a mine, 
They'll preserve the notes you sign ; 

Pass it up. 

If a man asks you to drink, 

Pass it up; 
Disregard his tempting wink. 

Pass it up. 
If you're asked to take a hand 
In a game with gamblers bland. 
Though you think you understand, 

Pass it up ! 

If you're asked to play the races, 

Pass it up; 
'Tis a pastime that disgraces — 

Pass it up; 
If a maid with big black eyes 
Your acquaintance seems to prize. 
And her winning tactics tries — 

Suit yourself ! 



69 



Here I am 

Typewriter in lap, 

Plenty of paper, 

Plenty of words. 

All kinds of time — 

And no idees ! 

Let's see. 

What shall I write? 

Shall I begin a stately ode to Night? 

No — I prefer to tackle something light, 

Something that sorter writes itself, you see 

In that event the public can't blame me. 

I think I'll try 

A little skit 

About the sky 

And clouds that flit 

Serenely by — 

No, that's not it ! 

I'll start 

All over again 

And let Imagination 

Run things to suit herself. 

I'll tell about the wedding 

Of the lily and the rose ; 

That's such a fresh, new subject. 



70 



Ne'er touched in verse or prose. 

Once there was a lily 

Growing in a dell — 

That settles it! 

A rhymester 

Who will sing about a lily 

Growing in a dell 

Ought to be fired out of the union. 

Guess I'll give it up. 

Maybe you'll think 

After reading this 

That I haven't written anything — 

And you'll be right! 



71 



Crimson leaves, 

Bracing weather, 
Golden sheaves, 

Rusting heather. 
County fairs, 

State fairs, too ; 
Apples, pears. 

Ripe clear through. 
Hazy skies, 

Frosty air ; 
Paradise 

Evervwhere ! 



72 



3lu Smt^rttk lUmih 
I. 

In Limerick land the rhymester strays 

Like a happy child o'er flower-strewn ways. 

He spurns the sonnet, the stately ode, 

The ballade, the musical villanelle; 
His Pegasus gallops along the road 

And the ragtime ring of a tinkling bell 
Floats through the air on every hand 
In laughing, lilting. Limerick land. 

It is never a resonant ring. 

The ring of the song that we sing ; 

It ripples along, 

A quaint little song, 
And the subject is any old thing! 



73 



11. 

In Limerick land no sorrow dwells, 
We hear no tolling of funeral bells. 
The songs of death, of the sable hearse. 
Must ever be couched in stately verse. 
The deeds of heroes, the clash of arms, 
The grim recital of War's alarms 
Make deathless themes for songsters grand 
We sing not thus in Limerick land. 

It is never a resonant ring, 

The ring of the song that we sing; 

It ripples along, 

A quaint little song, 
And the subject is any old thing! 



74 



From the lakeside come the belles, 

Charming belles ; 
What a tale of summer bliss each pretty maiden 

tells ! 
Now to ball and tea they hustle 
Every day and every night ; 
Now the dress designers hustle 
Making waist, skirt, jacket, bustle, 
Till the bill is out of sight — 
How they soak, soak, soak. 
Till poor dad is nearly broke ; 
Little sundries make it steeper and the total daily 

swells 
For the belles, belles, belles, belles. 

Belles, belles, belles — 
For the dainty, dashing, dimpled little belles ! 

See the tan upon the belles. 

Blistered belles! 
See their cunning little forearms, browner far 

than chestnut shells. 
Clad in gowns decollete. 
Do they wish this tinge to stay? 
Heavens, no! 

Now that they've returned to town 
They are busy taking off that coat of brown — 
It must go! 



75 



Soon 'twill disappear, they hope, 
And with acid, sand, and soap. 
And with various cosmetics that the wily drug- 
gist sells, 
They are tubbing, scrubbing, rubbing, 
Busy belles, belles, belles. 
Belles, belles, belles, belles, 
All these sunburnt, tawny, freckled little belles. 

See the flirting little belles. 
Fickle belles ! 

As the lovesick young recruit his tale of adora- 
tion tells ; 

At the lake each gay coquette 

Longed for suitors, and you bet 

Here in town 

Percy Smythe and Harold Brown, 

Algie Whyte and Willie Smyle 

Will be strung in proper style ; 

They are neither man nor woman. 

They are neither brute nor human, 

They are Its ! 

That's right, girlies, give 'em fits! 

Yes, they'll rapidly grow dippy 'neath the fas- 
cinating spells 

Of the belles, belles, belles, belles, 
Belles, belles, belles, 

Of the nifty little, shifty little belles ! 



76 



Pride of the music hall was she, 

Wild and wanton and fair to see, 

With great, dark eyes that smiled on me. 

Perdita ! Ah, it was years ago. 

In a straggling village in Mexico, 

That, lip to glass, I drank her health — 

That, lip to lip, I felt the wealth 

Of her rich, warm love, the love that reigns 

Supreme in proud, Castilian veins. 

Lightly I sipped the bubbling wine. 

Lightly I called her " Love of mine ! " 

And thought, as oft in the misty past, 

" 'Tis an idle dream, and it cannot last." 

True, she vowed that her love was deep, 

That in her heart she would ever keep 

My image sacred — how could I know ? 

She had often told 

A tale as bold — 

This light-o'-love down in Mexico. 

But I knew, and sadly the years have flown 
Would to God I had never known ! 
High ran the game in the gambling hell 
And the ivory ball that rolled and fell 
Doubled my store at every turn — 
There at my side Perdita stood, 



77 



Oneen of a hardened, satanic brood, 
Thrilled with a love I was yet to learn. 
Dame Fortune smiled, and I could not lose ; 
Stack after stack of reds and blues 
Passed to my side with each swift spin 

Till the scowling wretch behind the wheel 
Hissed, with a Spanish oath. " Cash in ! " 

And then — a shriek and a flash of steel ! 
1 saw the knife as in a dream — 
I felt it not, but I heard a scream 
As a willowy form sank from my breast 
And slim, cold fingers half caressed 
My bloodless cheeks. ... I aimed full well, 
Then a murderer's soul sneaked straight to hell. 
And Perdita's blood, like purple wine. 
Ebbed, as she whispered " Love of mine! '" 

Pride of the music hall w^as she. 

Wild and wanton and fair to see. 

With great, dark eyes that smiled on me. 



78 



The years roll by too swiftly — boyhood's days 
Seem, when I think of them, exceeding near ; 
Strange pranks, indeed, the memory sometimes 
plays — 
Tonight I see the old red barn, and hear 
A childish voice exclaiming " Don't you peek ! " 
Hurrah ! It is a game of hide and seek. 
" Eenie, meenie, minie, mo, 
Ketch a nigger by the toe ! 
If he hollers, let him go ; 
Eenie, meenie, minie, mo!" 

" There, Jimmie's it ! Now hurry up and blind ! " 
Then comes the scampering for a sheltered 
nook ; 
Some hurry far away, some sneak behind 

The barn where Jimmie stands ; he must not 
look. 
Each crouches like a panther in his lair, 

While " it's " shrill voice rings through the 
evening air : 

" Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, 
Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty. 
Ready or not, you shall be caught. 
All around the goal is caught ! " 



79 



Then lynx-eyed Jimmie starts upon the trail ; 

Here comes a youngster that he doesn't see, 
Who, highly pleased that foxy Jim should fail 

To spot him, pants out, " One, two, three for 
me!" 
Then Jimmie for his negligence atones 
By shrieking, " One, two, three for Billy Jones ! " 

Old Father Time has not been harsh with me, 
And good Dame Fortune now and then has 
smiled. 
But I would give up all, if I might be 

Once more a rough-and-tumble, romping child ; 
If I might mingle with old comrades dear, 
And, as in days gone by, this jingle hear: 
" Eenie, meenie, minie, mo. 
Ketch a nigger by the toe ! 
If he hollers, let him go ; 
Eenie, meenie, minie, mo ! " 



80 



When Love is dead the heart grows sad and 
weary, 
The birds no longer twitter in the trees ; 
Each passing day seems dismal, dark and dreary 

No transient, fleeting pleasure can appease. 
Perhaps to all the world we pass for jesters, 

But sorrow's arrow, with its poisoned head, 
Has sunk into the soul, and there it festers 
When Love is dead. 

When Love is dead great tears unshed 

Make bright eyes lose their luster ; 
With muffled drum sad mem'ries come 

And 'round the soul they cluster. 
The heart is but a haunted hut ; 

The sun of joy can never 
Shine through the door and warm it o'er 

When Love is dead forever. 



8i 



Hallabf of a iJJaghalm 

Some bars there be that the felons shake — 
Bars in the dungeon gaunt and gray ; 

Easy to rattle and hard to break, 

Grim and unyielding guardians they, 
Till the ages bid them to be the prey 

Of the Worm that turneth all things to dust. 
Bars of the world, that block my way — 

These are the bars that will never rust ! 

Ere the martyr went to the torturing stake 
By ponderous bars he was held at bay ; 

But the scantiest toll was theirs to take. 
For the jailer came at the break of day, 
And a saint walked forth from the cell to pray, 

While the barriers crumbled, as barriers must ; 
Bars of the world, that block my way — 

These are the bars that will never rust ! 

Strong are the bars where the madmen wake 

The echoes with riotous roundelay — 
Where mumbling maniacs strive to make 

Their exit, eager to gouge and slay; 

But the rivets yield and the bolts decay 
'Neath the steady siege of the Worm's fierce lust. 

Bars of the world, that block my way — 
These are the bars that will never rust! 



82 



L ENVOI. 



Prince, with a curse the price I pay — 
With a curse, a sob, and a dagger thrust. 

Bars of the world, that block my way — 
These are the bars that will never rust ! 



83 



And now the bowling expert for the alleys makes 
a hike 

And diligently strives to get a spare, if not a 
strike. 

Frame after frame, game after game, until his 
arm is numb 

And blisters come to irritate his tired, aching 
thumb. 

Which leads my Muse to warble of a hustling, 
humble one — 

'Tis not the much-praised, loudly-touted man be- 
hind the gun, 

Nor yet the power behind the throne — the gen- 
tleman that skins 

These often-mentioned worthies is the kid behind 
the pins. 

The man behind the gun, of course, deserves his 
meed of praise, 

And surely has received it in a multitude of ways. 

That he was brave we all admit ; that he shot 
straight we grant, 

So straight, in fact, that there are now few Span- 
ish ships extant ; 

Yet he was not one whit more brave than the per- 
spiring lad 



84 



Who faces death for twelve long hours for one 

small, stingy scad, 
Who flinches not when lignum vit^e balls bounce 

off his shins ; 
And so, say I, all honor to the kid behind the pins. 

The power behind the throne has made his mark- 
in histor-ee. 

And potentates have trembled when he set his 
anger free. 

Earl Warwick was a crackajack — he fought in 
proper style 

And made our old friend Ed. the Fourth jump 
sidewise for awhile. 

But ah! he saw his finish at the battle of Barnet. 

Whereas the hero of this lay is doing business yet. 

So let us pause a moment ere the strenuous game 
begins, 

And breathe a benediction on the kid behind the 
pins. 



85 



(With Apologies to the Reader) 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 

in the cow, 
And the hungry hog is calHn' to his tootsy-wootsy 

sow, 
And the hen is in the hennery, layin' eggs to beat 

the band, 
Wal, it's then that I'm the maddest, merriest 

Reuben in the land. 
For the sun is shinin' brightly, in the same ol' 

sassy way, 
And the cellar's full o' taters, and the barn is full 

o' hay, 
And I am full of cider, hard as granite, I'll allow, 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 

in the cow. 

Thar's somethin' kinder doublelike about the 

things I see — 
I see a dozen buildin's whar thar's only two er 

three ; 
But, gosh ! I ain't no quitter ! Fill the tumbler 

to the brim ; 
I'll gulp it down, by ginger, though my sight's 

a-gettin' dim. 



86 



I'm done with my fall plowin', and the threshin's 

over, too, 
And so I might as well tank up a little — wouldn't 

you? 
So give us — hie — anuzzer shwig ! Lesh drive 

dull care away 
When fro-frosh is on — hie — punkin, and cidersh 

in ja-jay ! 



87 



Come, lads, fill np your glasses — 

The sun is in the east ; 
Drink to the winsome lasses 

With whom we love to feast. 
The sun is in the east, lads, 

Come, let us scoff at death! 
With wine to cheer we do not fear 

The Reaper's icy breath. 

Come, lads, fill up your glasses — 

The sun shines overhead ; 
And though time swiftly passes 

The wine is ruby red. 
The sun is overhead, lads. 

Come, let us drink again! 
Fill up, fill up the faithful cup — 

Ho, all ye merry men ! 

Come, lads, fill up your glasses — 

The sun is in the west; 
The thought of death harasses 

Each seared and haunted breast. 
The sun is in the west, lads. 

And night is drawing nigh. 
Upon the brink we drink, we drink 

For thus " good fellows " die. 



88 



I once wrote a beautiful poem 

Entitled " The Prodigal Son." 
I showed it to friends, who pronounced it 

The best thing I ever had done. 
Some said it was perfectly splendid, 

And others said, " Isn't it grand ? " 
I sent it away to a journal, 

The biggest and best in the land. 

I wondered how much they would pay me, 

And what I would do with the check ; 
We poets, you know, find it tiresome — 

This raking in coin by the peck. 
Till finally, one autumn morning, 

I came to the office and learned 
That during the night, while I slumbered, 

The Prodigal Son had returned ! 



89 



As I slept one night a vision 

Came softly to cheer my soul ; 
Twas the face of a lovely woman 

That into nn- presence stole. 
The face of a Grecian goddess, 

The eyes of a fairy queen, 
Lustrous and passing tender, 

Orbs of Venus, I ween. 
And still I can see the halo 

That shone o'er that beauteous head, 
Though when I rose from my night's repose 

The vision itself was dead. 

And so, when the minor poet 

Strikes softly his timid lyre, 
Though lurks in his gentle ballad 

No trace of immortal fire, 
I hark to the song he fashions, 

It finds in my heart a place 
Beside the undying memory 

Of that beautiful vision-face. 
For oft we cherish the music 

Of the songs that the poets dream, 
Though buried deep their lost lines sleep 

'Neath Oblivion's mightv stream. 



90 



®Ij0 Mm tl|at ICauijlis iPtrat 

You've all heard the trite little motto 

That he who laughs last laughs the best ; 
Be that as it may 'tis a half-hearted way 

Of greeting a friend's merry jest. 
Perhaps it is wise to be solemn — 

To sit back with lips tightly pursed, 
Till all of the rest have applauded with zest, 

But here's to the man that laughs first. 

Of course I am twisting the motto 

To suit this melodious lay ; 
But many I've found who twist it around 

In just this identical way. 
Pray go to the play if you doubt it, 

And wait for the laughter to burst ; 
The number is vast that waits to laugh last. 

So here's to the man that laughs first. 

We all like the rollicking fellow 

Who sees, in a jifify, the point ; 
Who throws back his head and laughs " on the 
dead," 

Till his features are all out of joint. 
The man that laughs last, I imagine. 

With a weak sense of humor is cursed : 
Let's laugh while we may — 'tis but for a day, 

So here's to the man that lausrhs first. 



91 



IBallali? of a BolhmB 3uU 

I was a warrior undismayed 

When first I heard the bugle call — 
When first, a glittering cavalcade, 

The foemen came, an armed wall 

Like to the columns led by Saul ; 
I sprang, the ramparts to defend. 

Tonight I am a conquered thrall — 
I pray Thee, Father, speed the end! 

One of my comrades was afraid ; 

I cursed him as he sought to crawl 
Far from the awful fusillade ; 

I wept not when a flying ball 

Had laid him low ; I saw them haul 
His form away — poor, craven friend ! 

Tonight I do regret it all — 
I pray Thee, Father, speed the end. 

Against me was the world arrayed. 
The world, and Satan in his stall ; 

My trusty sword he bade me trade 
For weapons from his arsenal — 
Lust, wine, the wanton's tinsel shawl ! 

On these he taught me to depend. 

Fight ? Nay, 'tis but a drunken brawl 

I pray Thee, Father, speed the end. 



92 



L ENVOI. 



Prince ! As the purple shadows fall 
I give thee back what thou didst lend. 

Night creeps around me like a pall — 
I pray Thee, Father, speed the end! 



93 



Norn anb ®I|pn 

All of us commit mistakes 

Now and then ; 
Some of us make serious breaks 

Now and then. 
We are apt to set the pace 
In this bustling, worldly race 
With more recklessness than grace. 

Now and then. 

We are fond of breaking out 

Now and then, 
And we go too far, no doubt, 

Now and then. 
Yes, indeed, 'tis nothing new 
To be sorry, through and through. 
For the foolish things we do 

Now and then. 

Well, we only really live 

Now and then ; 
Others' faults we can forgive 

Now and then. 
At our own, then, let us wink ; 
Of Life's sea we'd tire, I- think, 
If we didn't sort o' sink 

Now and then. 



94 



When Orpheus played upon his lyre 

The sun and moon stood still ; 
With ecstasy and heavenly fire 

He seemed all hearts to thrill. 
Wild beasts crept 'round him, quite subdued. 
With reverence for his art imbued ; 
And, if Mythology be true, 
He took a lonely journey to 
The realms of Hades, to set free 
His wife, the fair Eurydice. 
Full well he knew that he could play 
Such music as would even sway 
The heart of Pluto, gloomy cuss. 
And tame his watchdog, Cerberus. 

In the next flat to mine there dwells 

A youth who loves to play 
His violin ; the discord swells 

And falls the livelong day. 
He plays the " Intermezzo " and 
Such classic stuff to beat the band. 
He also plays in lighter veins, 
For instance, " Hiawatha's " strains 
At midnight through the keyhole creep 
And rob me of much needed sleep. 
I am quite sure this long-haired kid 



95 



Could do about what Orpheus did. 

At least, his backer I would be, 
And buy him an asbestos suit. 
If he would hustle down the chute 

And look for fair Eurydice! 



96 



Mliat Manlh 31 in 

(A Poem of Passion.) 

What would I do 
If you, my own, should hail me through 
The gloom of twelve long, weary days — 
If you should somehow make a raise 
And call, you swell of all dear swells, 
With twelve cents worth of caramels, 

What would I do? 

What would I do 
If you in sweet abandon threw 
Your wiry arms around my neck 
And raked in kisses by the peck? 
If you, perchance, should whisper low, 
" I love you — that is all I know ! " 
And, as in those glad days of old. 
My form in your embrace enfold, 
(Strangle hold barred) — if you should kiss 
My yearning lips, and deftly miss 
The mole contiguous thereto. 

What would I do? 

What would I do? 
Pardon me if I weep a few! 
These tears are weak, but you have strayed 
To where, mayhap, some fairer maid 



97 



More intellectual than I 
Softly adjusts your quarter tie. 
But if you were to come again, 
I would forget the awful pain 
Your fickleness has made for me, 
And, honey, I would cling to thee 
Till thy dear neck was black and blue 
That's what I'd do! 



98 



Abou T. Lipton (may his tribe increase!) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw an angel with a fountain pen 
Scribbhng upon a sheet of foolscap. Then, 
Regaining his composure, Tom sat up, 
And asked the angelic one to have a cup 
Of his best tea. The angel shook his head, 
" Tm on the water wagon now," he said. 
Abou T. Lipton waved his hand ; " I see, 
But, by the way, what writest thou ? " said he. 
The heavenly vision answered, " Well, I write 
Here on this little sheet, in black and white. 
The man whose boat will get the needed place — 
The winner in the coming yachting race." 
The gallant Lipton brightened up. " Pray tell," 
He queried, " does the name begin with L? " 
" I'm sorry," said his guest. " It is a shame. 
But as things stand, I cannot write your name." 
T. Lipton made reply, " Would I were It, 
But put me down as one who never quit ! " 

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night 

He called on Tom again, but not to write. 

Said he, "I have, on this large, handsome chart 

(A fine example of the engraver's art) 

The names of some true sportsmen, just the best." 

And lo, T. Lipton's name led all the rest ! 



99 



i.ofC. 



f f (^mtk Olritir 

Down in the pasture, near the creek, 

A cricket chirped his little lay ; 
A jackass heard the effort meek 

Whenas, by chance, he ceased to bray. 
He waited till the song was o'er, 

Listening in amazement dumb, 
And though he would have stood for more, 

He only said, " It's pretty bum ! " 

And thus the rhymester's roundelays 

Are often styled by some that list; 
Perhaps he strives for gold or bays, 

Perhaps he seeks but to exist. 
Heed not the critical harangue. 

Sing on, O bards, enjoyed by some. 
Remember, when the cricket sang. 

The jackass said, " It's pretty bum ! " 



||tauiatlya ntt las^ball 

'' Then, again," said Hiawatha, 
" I am somewhat interested 
In this baseball proposition. 
Fm a red-hot, ranting rooter, 
Very fond of pitcher's battles. 
Fond of extra-inning contests, 
Always out to kill the umpire 
When he makes a bum decision. 
It is claimed, my little dearies. 
That this pastime was invented 
By a gent named Father Chadwick, 
Who was aided and abetted 
By old Grandad Adrian Anson. 
Should you ask me who discovered 
And originated baseball, 
I would tell you in a jiffy, 
It was Skin-the-Sassy-Muskrat 
Of the tribe of the Ojibways, 
Of the sporty old Ojibways, 
Who received their correspondence 
Where the falls of Minnehaha 
Gleam and gurgle in the sunlight. 
This young Skin-the-Sassy-Muskrat 
Was a thoroughbred from way back, 
Very game was he, and nifty. 
He could sit in for an evening. 
And corral the red and blue ones. 



He could guzzle firewater 

Like a dry old dromedary 

Stocking up at an oasis, 

And it never seemed to touch him. 

After scheming for a fortnight, 

All the braves he called around him, 

And explained his proposition. 

Then two teams were straightway chosen, 

One was called the Mighty Mudhens, 

Captain, Skin-the-Sassy-Muskrat ; 

And the other, Heap Bad Actors, 

Captain, Big-Chief-Bite-the-Features. 

On a level stretch of meadow, 

Near the shores of Gitchie Gummie, 

These two factions came together. 

Buck-Afraid-of-His-Reflection 

Volunteered to act as umpire ; 

Up came Skin-the-Sassy-Muskrat, 

Swung at several wild pitches. 

Hit the ozone with his war club ; 

' Batter out ! ' the umpire shouted. 

Whereupon the Mighty Mudhens, 

Led by Skin-the-Sassy-Muskrat, 

Scalped the luckless arbitrator : 

Then they made him run the gauntlet. 

This, my children, is the story. 

Of the rise and fall of baseball 

In the land of the Ojibways." 



" I am vexed," said Hiawatha, 
" Vexed and likewise disappointed. 
When I read about the barons, 
Earls, and dukes, and other nobles, 
That go broke at penny ante, 
Bridge, and baccarat, and faro — 
Go flat broke, then run their faces. 
When they can no longer borrow 
They take passage on a steamer. 
Come to Newport, nail an heiress, 
And return to get their watches 
From the thrifty three-ball merchants. 
Yes, indeed, 'tis easy money ; 
In exchange for some cheap title 
That they could not trade in Europe 
For a fair-sized clubhouse sandwich. 
They secure perhaps a million 
Of some rich old butcher's money. 
And, to boot, his charming daughter. 
It was different, very different. 
When we Injuns ran the country. 
For example, I remember 
When I used to spend my evenings 
At the arrowmaker's wigwam. 
Singing love duets, and making 
Goo-goo eyes at Minnehaha. 

103 



Once there was a mighty chieftain 
From the land of the Shellgamos, 
Came to see the arrowmaker; 
Came to ask him for his daughter, 
And he told the arrowmaker : 
' Big-Chief-Chickenfeed they call me ; 
I am poor, but a patrician — 
You can tell from my appearance, 
My aristocratic instep, 
That I am no common piker, 
But a fine, blueblooded noble, 
And, although your Minnehaha 
Has no pedigree to speak of, 
Never mind — I need the money.' 
Then the ancient arrowmaker 
Took a long drag at his peace pipe, 
And replied about as follows : 
' Big-Chief-Chickenfeed, my daughter 
Loves a brave named Hiawatha, 
Who, although he is no noble, 
With an empty, gold brick title, 
Can support my Minnehaha, 
While, if your wife, she would have to 
Draw on me or take in washing. 
Get thee gone into the forest — 
Back into the woods primeval ! ' 
Thus it was that Minnehaha 
Sidestepped a distinguished husband." 

104 



I. 

A colonel, while drinking his liquor, 

At a feudist's loud boasts chanced to sniquor ; 

The colonel now sleeps 

'Neath the daisies for keeps ; 
He was quick, but the feudist was quiquor! 

II. 

A granger who came from Twin Views 
Sat in with a nice stack of bliews. 

Ere the midnight bell tolled 

His feet grew so cold 
That he had to stuff hay in his shiews ! 



105 



III. 

A verdant young Reub from Quebec 
Attempted to work a cold dec. 

He was caught at the deed 

By a miner from Creede, 
And awoke with a hole in his nee ! 

IV. 

That granite-faced dub called the Sphinx 
Has missed many thousands of drinx, 

But equals, perhaps, 

A great many chaps, 
In the number of thunks that he thinx! 



io6 



®Ij]^ Ncrsk Ntgl|tmgab 



Speak yentle; it ban better far 

To rule by love dan fear; 
Ef yii speak rough, yu stand nice chance 

To get gude smash on ear. 

Speak yentle to the coal-man — he 

Ban easy to get mad ; 
Ef yu ant getting any coal, 

By Yinger! Dat ban bad! 

Speak yentle to the alderman 

Ven he ban feeling blue. 
And maybe, ven he turn gude trick. 

He skol whack op vith yu. 

Speak yentle to yure lady f rends, 

And give gude lots of bunk, 
Ef yu skol lak to getting chance 

To put yure clothes in trunk. 

Speak yentle to Yim Yeffries, tu, 
Ay tenk dis ban gude hunch — 

Den yu ant need to put yure face 
On Maester Yeffries' punch! 

Speak yentle everywhere yu go, 

And people skol forget 
That yu ban vatching for gude chance 

Tu vinning every bet ! 

109 



l^orattuB at tl|f IriJig^ 

Horatius ban brave yentleman, 

Who vatch big bridge at night ; 
It ban glide many years ago, 

Ay ant got date yust right. 
Dar ban some foxy geezers 

Who march avay from home, 
And tenk they having qvite gude chance 

To raise some hal in Rome. 

Lars Porsena ban starting it — 

Ay tenk Lars ban a Svede ; 
He raise 'bout tousand soldiers, 

And put himself in lead. 
Then he began tu marching. 

And all his f rends march tu, 
Till they skol come almost to Rome, 

Var dey skol rest a few. 

Then op spake Maester Horatius, 

Captain of dis har gate: 
" To every yackass on dis earth 

Death coming sune or late. 
So how can ay die better, 

Than vatching bridge, yu say? 
Now, who skol standing on my front, 

And vatching bridge vith me ? " 



Then Maester Laertus Larson, 

A scrapper fine ban he, 
Say, " Ay skol standing on yure back, 

But not on front, by Yee ! " 
And old Herminius Hermanson — 

He ban glide fighter, tu, 
Say, " Ay skol taking little smash 

At dese bar Svedes vith yu ! " 

So ven dis Maester Porsena 

Ban come to big bridge gate, 
He sees three husky lumberyacks, 

And know he come tu late. 
But Lars, he ant ban qvitter, 

He send bout saxteen men 
To taking bridge — by Yiminy, 

Dey ant come back again! 

While old Horatius and his frends 

Ban vatching bridge so gude, 
Some aldermen on oder shore 

Ban sawing planty vood. 
Ay tal yu, ven dese boodlers 

Ban start to tear things down, 
Dar ant no better vorkers 

Novere in whole dam town! 



So veil dis bridge start falling, 

Horatius' f rends yiimp back, 
And he skol stand alone, dar — 

He ban brave lumberyack. 
Then he yump into Tiber, 

And say, '' Ay skol svim home ! 
Dis bar ban how Horatius 

Skol turn gfude trick for Rome ! 



Ynst two years ago last venter 

Ay meet Olaf op in camp ; 
Ve ban lumberyacks togedder, 

Every morning ve skol tramp 
Bout sax miles yust after breakfast 

Till ve come to big pine trees ; 
Den our straw boss he skol make us 

Vork lak little busy bees. 

Olaf, he ban yolly faller, 

He skol taling yoke all day ; 
Sometimes he sing dis har ragtime, 

Yust to passing time avay. 
And at night, ven ve ban smoking 

After supper, he skol make 
All us lumberyacks to laughing 

Till our belts skol nearly break. 

Me and Olaf bunked together, 

And sometimes he taling me 
Bout his vife and little Torger, 

Who ban living cross big sea. 
"Ay ban saving dough," say Olaf, 

" And next summer, ef ay can, 
Ay skol send for vife and baby ; 

Den ay ban a happy man ! " 



"3 



One night Olaf getting letter 

Ven ve coming back to camp ; 
He yust tal me " Little Torger ! " 

And his eyes ban gude and damp. 
Dis ban how ay know vy Olaf 

Never taling no more yoke — 
Vy he yust sit down at night time, 

Close by me, var he skol smoke. 



114 



Ay ban tenking lots of yu, 

Little Steena Yohnson, 
Ay ban sure yu love me true, 

Little Steena Yohnson. 
Oder geezers lak to play 
In yure yard, but yu skol say, 
"Ay don't lak yu f allers, nay ! " 

Little Steena Yohnson. 

Some day yu skol be my vife. 

Little Steena Yohnson ; 
Ay ban glad, yu bet yure life. 

Little Steena Yohnson. 
Ay ban vork lak nigger, tu, 
Yumping 'round vith treshing crew 
Ay skol building home for yu, 

Little Steena Yohnson. 

Maybe ve skol saving dough. 

Little Steena Yohnson ; 
Back to Norvay ve skol go, 

Little Steena Yohnson. 
Back vere dis har midnight sun 
Shining lak a son of a gun ; 
Ant yu tenk dis har ban fun. 

Little Steena Yohnson? 



115 



The shades of night ban falling fast 
Ven tru Dakota willage passed 
Young faller who skol carry flag 
And yell, so loud sum he can brag, 
" Excelsior ! " 

Ay ant know yust vat he skol mean, 
But yust lak dis har talk machine 
He keep on saying, night and day 
(Ay s'pose to passing time avay), 
" Excelsior ! " 

Sven Svenson tal me dis har guy 
Ban crazy ; den he tal me why. 
He say dis faller once ban gay 
And happy ; den he never say 
" Excelsior ! " 

But after while, say Sven, he meet 
A chorus girl who look quite sveet, 
And marry her, and den find out 
Vat making her so plump and stout 
" Excelsior ! " 

So now poor faller have to go 
Lak lunatic, tru ice and snow; 
He tenk about his old girl May, 
And dis ban all vich he can say : 

" Excelsior ! " 

ii6 



iFatff^r MiUtam 

" Yu ban old, Fader Olaf," a young geezer say, 
" Yure hair it ban whiter sum snow ; 

Ay lak yu to tal me how yu keep so young — 
By Yudas ! Ay ant hardly know." 

" Ven ay ban a young kid," Fader Olaf he say, 

"Ay never hang out in saloon ; 
Ay never ban smoking dese har cigarettes, 

Or sitting on sofa and spoon ! " 

'' Yu ban slim. Fader Olaf," the young faller say, 

" Old fallers ban mostly dam fat ; 
Yu measure bout tventy-sax inches round vaist — 

Vat for ban the reason of that? " 

" In the days of my youth," Fader Olaf reply, 
"Ay ant drenk no lager from cup ; 

Ay let all my frends fight dis bourbon and rye, 
And alvays pass breakfast fude up ! " 

" Fader Olaf, yure eyes ban so bright sum a star, 

Yu ant vear no glasses at all ; 
Ay lak yu to tal me gude reason for dis ; 

Ay hope yu don't give me no stall." 



117 



"All the days of my life," Fader Olaf den say, 

"Ay never ban going to shows, 
And straining my eyes vatching dese chorus girls, 

Vich ant vearing wery much clo'es ! " 

Den young faller say, " Fader Olaf, ay tenk 

Yu ban full of ginger, old pal ; 
But yu had to missing gude times all yure life, 

So ay skol keep on raising hal ! " 



ii8 



Olurfi^m #l|aU not iRittg (Fnntgiit 

England's sun ban slowly setting on big hilltops. 

far avay, 
Dis har sun ban tired of standing, so it lak to sat, 

yu say ; 
And yust ven dis sun ban setting, it shine hard on 

Yosephine ; 
She ban talking to the sexton, and ban feeling 

purty mean. 
" Now," she tal him, " yust be careful ... ay 

skol fix it op all right ; 
Yust one teng ay lak to tal yu — Curfew skol not 

reng tonight ! " 

Val, the sun yust keep on setting, and the sexton 

start for bell ; 
" Vait a minute! " Yosie tal him; sexton answer, 

"Vattu'ell?" 
" Val," she say, " ay having sveetheart who ban 

over har in yail. 
Ay ban vorking hard for money, nuff so ay can 

pay his bail ; 
But it ant no use to du it, and dis har old yudge 

skol write 
That he dies ven bell start going — Curfew skol 

not reng tonight ! " 



119 



Den, yu say, dis Maester sexton he can't hearing 

Yosephine ; 
He ban vork in boiler factory ven he ban about 

saxteen. 
And it mak him deaf lak blazes, so he go and 

grabbing rope, 
But Miss Yosephine ant qvitter — she ant losing 

any hope. 
No sir — she run op in bell tower, yust so fast 

sum she can run, 
And she tak gude hold on bell tongue, and hang 

on lak son of a gun ! 

Maester sexton he keep renging, but dis bell ant 

reng, yu say, 
For Miss Yosephine ban op dar ; she ant ban no 

country yay ! 
Ay yust bet yu she get groggy, for her yob ban 

purty tough, 
But the bell don't " dingle dangle " — it ant even 

making bluff. 
" Val, by yinger ! " say the sexton, '* dis bar rope 

ban awful tight." 
Yosephine look down and tal him, " Curfew skol 

not reus: tonieht ! " 



t20 



Purty soon it ban all over — sexton he ban start 

for town, 
And Miss Yosie rest a minute — den ay s'pose 

she coming down. 
Anyho she go next morning for gude talk vith 

some poleece, 
And she yolly Maester Cromwell — he ban Ytis- 

tice of the Peace. 
" Gude for yu ! " say Maester Cromwell, " ay 

skol let him live, all right, 
Yust because yu fule dis sexton — Curfew skol 

not reng tonight ! " 



(Si;? Bag IB Sottf 

The day ban done, and darkness 

Falling from vengs of night, 
Lak fedder flying from ruster, 

Ven he ban having fight. 
Ay see the lights of willage 

Shinning tru rain and mist, 
And ay skol feel dam sleepy, 

Lak fallers playing whist ! 

Come, read tii me some werses, 

Ay ant care vat yii read, 
Yust so it ant bout trouble. 

Or hearts vich ache and bleed. 
Ay lak dese har nice yingles 

Bout sun and trees and grass, 
But ven it com to heartache, 

Yerusalem ! Ay skol pass ! 

Read from some humble geezer. 

Whose songs ban sveet to hear — 
Who making, from his poetry. 

Bout saxteen cents a year. 
Ay lak to hear his yingles. 

Ay tal yu, dey ban fine ; 
Dis har ban vy ay lak dem — 

Dev ban so much lak mine! 



122 



Such songs have glide, nice sound 

Dey making sorrow fly ; 
Dey coming lak glass of seltzer 

Vich follows drenk of rye. 
And night skol be full of music, 

And tengs ve lak to forget 
Skol fold op tents lak Yipsies 

And sneaking avay, yu bet! 



123 



Maude Muller, on nice summer day, 
Raked in meadows sveet vith hay. 

Her eyes ban sharp lak gude sharp knife, 
She ban nice girl, ay bet yure Hfe ! 

Before she ban dar wery long 
She start to senging little song. 

The Yudge came riding down big hill 
In nice red yumping ottomobill. 

Maude say, " Hello, Yudge — how ban yu ? " 
The Yudge say, " Maudie, how y' du?" 

He say, " Skol yu tak little ride? 
Ef yu skol lak to, yump inside." 

So Maude and Yudge ride bout sax miles. 
And Yudge skol bask in Maude's sveet smiles. 

The Yudge say, " Skol yu be my pal? " 
Den ottomobill bust all to hal ! 

Den Maude ban valking bout half vay, 
Back to meadows sveet vith hay. 

"Ay luv yu still, dear," say the Yudge, 
But Maude she only say, " O fudge ! " 

Of all sad vords that men skol talk. 

The saddest ban, " Valk, yu sucker, valk! " 

124 



" ftm 

Dar ban a little faller, 

Ay tenk his name ban Yim, 
And nearly every morning 

Ay used to seeing him. 
He used to stand in gatevay. 

And call me Svede, and ay 
Ant lak to hear dis nickname, 

Ay ban a Norsk, yu say. 

But he ban little faller, 

Ay tenk bout sax years old. 
And so ay used to lak him — 

He ban too small to scold. 
Ay used to say, " Val, Yimmie, 

Ay ant ban Svede, but yu 
Can call me Svede — ay lak yu 

And ant care vat yu du." 

By Yeorge ! Ay'm glad, ay tal yu, 

Dat ay ban gude to him, 
Because one venter morning 

Ay ant see little Yim. 
And next day funeral vagon 

Com driving op to door, 
And Yim, poor little faller. 

Can't call me Svede no more ! 



125 



YoyfuUy, yoyfuUy, 

Yoyfully onvard, 

In dis har walley of death 

Rode the sax hundred! 

It ban a cinch, ay tenk, 

Some geezer blundered. 

" Hustle ! Yu Light Brigade ! 

Yump ! " Maester Olson said ; 

Den in the walley of death 

Go the sax hundred ! 

Cannon on right of dem, 
Cannon on left of dem, 
Cannon on top of dem 
Wolleyed and t'undered ; 
Smashed vith dis shot and shal, 
Dey ant do wery val ; 
Most of dem ketching hal — 
Nearly sax hundred ! 

Yes, all dem sabres bare 
Flash purty gude in air; 
Each faller feel his hair 
Standing — no vonder! 
Yudas ! It ant ban vob 



126 



For any coward slob, 
Fighting dis Russian mob — 
Ay tenk ay vudn't stand 
Yeneral's blunder. 

Cannon on right of dem, 
Cannon on top of dem, 
Cannon behind dem, tu, 
Wolleyed and t'undered. 
Finally say Captain Brenk, 
" Ve got enuff , ay tenk ! 
Let's go and getting drenk." 
'Bout twenty-sax com back 
Out of sax hundred! 

Ven skol deir glory fade? 

It ban gude charge dey made — 

Every von vondered. 
Every von feeling blue — 
'Cause dey ban brave old crew, 
Yolly gude fallers, tu, 

Dis har sax hundred! 



127 



JUL X^ la^-* 



